A new life

The airline industry in the Congo has the worst reputation of any in the world. A recent crash caused the government to ban the biggest operator from the skies. Another, apparently too successful one, operated by South African Airways, was closed down on a technicality. This has left one operator with a monopoly which it is enjoying all the way to the bank, with ticket prices rising daily in response to the huge demand.

Since the risk of a crash by all of the commercial operators is so high, none of us aid and diplomatic workers are allowed to use them, and must fly by the UN systems which were primarily set up by the peace-keeping force. Due to the loss of the SAA planes (which we were allowed to use) the pressure on flights to Lubumbashi is huge, particularly as it is not a town that needs either humanitarian or peace-keeping support. Thus it is that the journey from Kinshasa to Lubumbashi takes 1½ days, and about seven hours flying time as we wander around the country in little planes designed to deliver good works to villages.

The scene in Kinshasa, as we are checked in at 6.00 a.m. is tense. There are always more people than places. The passengers include the genuine and few peace keepers, pen pushers from the UN bureaucracy, who have to be seen to be doing something by travelling, and development and NGO types who are working for international donors. We eye each other slightly suspiciously, as if to say, why are you on this flight?

There are problems with the weight. One person who attracts a lot of interest has two large bags and a guitar. From the look of his youthful beard, the weak smile that he uses to disguise his fear, and his obvious uncertainty about what is happening, he is obviously a newcomer. The man operating the scales allows him through, even though he is almost 20kg over, as an act of sympathy.

We disembark at Kalemie, a place in the middle of nowhere, while the plane continues to Goma with most of the passengers. Our lank person with the guitar gets off. We have to stay overnight as our connecting flight to Lubumbashi is not until tomorrow morning.

The next morning is crisis time. For us, it was partly because (as recounted elsewhere) we arrived just as our seats were about to be given to desperate standby passengers. But worse was to come. The genial Moroccan soldier supervising everything told us that due to certain circumstances, they had to limit the luggage to 20kg including hand-carried stuff. No exceptions were to be made, not even for tools of the trade (my laptop).

Our lank hero, carrying everything he was to need for the next two years, had the dreadful job of choosing what to take and what to leave. He had been joined by two colleagues. One, an older Japanese man who insouciantly carried a satellite phone, but whose luggage was little more than a back pack; and a blue stocking French woman in her thirties. Between them they managed to share some of his excess, but after 30 minutes of sorting he was still fighting an unwinnable battle of dividing important from unimportant. The guitar was, of course, the first to go; but what about some books, spare pairs of shoes, shampoo? Where was he to get shampoo from, where he was going? My Congolese colleague was in a similar position. She had a veritable army of handbags and assorted luggage, probably mostly containing eatable bargains from Kinshasa.

The Moroccan explained that that plane was only half way through its biannual service, so wasn’t very powerful . . . so it was for our own safety that they had to impose these restrictions. They promised to send the excess baggage by the next plane, two days later. And not to worry – they promised nothing would get stolen.

The plane was very small: ten passengers, with the luggage strapped down on the floor at the back. No loo here, and no drinks service either. On the bulkhead was a placard proclaiming that the service was funded by the US, the UK, Canada, Spain and Mexico.

As the plane lumbered down the dirt runway, the Moroccan’s warning about the uncompleted service was ringing in our ears. It took forever to take off and I wasn’t the only one whose knuckles were white. Just in time the nose lifted off, and I’m still alive to tell the tale.

Two stops later we arrived at the tiny aerodrome of Bukama, pictured above, and our lank young man got off with his two colleagues. A pick-up truck was there to meet them: Soladarité International, proudly proclaimed the logo on its side (it describes itself as a humanitarian organisation based in France which aids war victims through emergency relief and rehabilitation).

As he hopped in you could see his relief at being transformed from being a helpless pawn in the game of UN flights, into a saviour of people’s lives.